


Ink

by terraplan



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terraplan/pseuds/terraplan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being with Malik was always an adventure full of the unexpected. Written for the Assassin's Creed Big Bang Round One.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Assassin's Creed Big Bang Round One. Prompt: #6 Annassar by kimbo-demonica.
> 
> Original post: http://community.livejournal.com/ac_bigbang/2333.html?style=mine#cutid1
> 
> Many, many thanks to the wonderful dmnutv_archer for all the help, input and fangirling and to eagleofmasyaf/roelani for additional inspiration.

His vision tunneled, the path right in front of him dimming to a small circle and everything else becoming completely blurry. He ran at the top of his speed, sending vessels crashing in his wake, pushing distracted merchants out of the way, hopping on low walls trying to gain leverage. He knew he needed to jump to the roofs soon or he would never be able to vanish from the guards’ sight.

He turned left, then took a sharp right and didn’t even think twice before throwing his hands up at an open window, climbing the building swiftly without looking back. He heard shouting somewhere below. Luckily enough, there was a hideout nearby, ragged green curtains mostly still in the absence of wind. He dived at once, prompted by the sound of guards approaching.

He held still for a moment. There was shouting. He counted one, two, three, four—and there it was, a loud shout from one of the guards, giving the order to cease search and give up pursuit.

Now safe from danger, it took him a while to realize he was lying down on something wet. He shifted to a crouching position, cringing at the sloshing sound. His robes were either covered in murk or downright soaking wet. And it looked like he had just ruined someone’s hard work on a quite nice hidden garden full of water plants.  

He moved again to look around, tipping a large pot filled with muddy water and green leaves in the process. His eyebrows creased in irritation.

He really hoped Malik was not at the bureau.

 

*

 

For once, luck favored him. Malik was not at the bureau. He sighed. It would save him the embarrassment of showing up looking like he had been rolling around on a particularly muddy area of the _souq_ ’s floor.

He resisted the temptation to just deposit himself in the fountain until he was clean again. His clothes felt heavy and tacky and he wanted nothing more than to take them off. Balanced on the fountain’s edge, he shed them quickly, laying the stained vest and breeches at his feet, where they would do the least damage. He was being as careful as he could, but his muddy boots did not cooperate and he smudged one of the cushions while trying to take them off.

Rubbing his eyes, he sighed again. He would escape Malik’s mockery for the state of his clothes but not his wrath for dirtying the bureau.

He used Malik’s sponge and water bucket to get clean. Most of the dirt was on his legs and arms, so a visit to the hammam was not necessary. While in the bedchamber waiting for his hair to dry, he searched around for Malik’s clothes, succeeding in finding a neatly folded pair of breeches. He put them on and looked down at himself. Not on his best shape, but he was at least presentable.

And now he would have to distract himself with something until Malik returned.

He walked around the bureau, admiring of the amount of books Malik had. But a closer look revealed thin layers of dust, which meant he didn’t put them to use that much. It made sense. Malik could be assigned any function in the world, but he would always be an assassin at heart. He would always feel the appeal of danger, be seduced by the thrill that preceded the kill. His mind would always be captured by the practical side more than by back-office arrangements.

His restless pacing took him to Malik’s desk. Would he be able to run a bureau, if need be? He found the idea so distant and farfetched… couldn’t even conceive it. Would he even have the skills to do it? His eyes were drawn to all the maps covering Malik’s desk. Precision and exactness covered all those parchments, perfect handwriting contouring the detailed drawing of lands and roads. Malik was good at this.

Curiosity had him eyeing the pot of ink and the quill sitting on the desk. It wouldn’t hurt to try, even if being assigned to a bureau was in the realm of impossibility. For now, at least. He picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink and looked around for a piece of parchment to try his skills on, but all he could see were parchments already in use that were probably not meant to be ruined by his experimentations. Shrugging, he held out his left arm and tried to replicate some of Malik’s words and drawings. After a few moments of deep concentration, he set the quill on the desk and contemplated his work, comparing it to Malik’s. He smiled at his own ineptitude. He failed miserably at this.

He was just turning around to pay another visit to Malik’s bucket and sponge when the soft sounds in the outer room announced Malik’s arrival. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should let Malik catch him like this, seminude and playing around with his quill. But then Malik entered the room, shaking dust off his robes, and his indecisiveness was put to an end. Looked like he had run into trouble himself on his way back, judging by the way he was breathing heavily and holding a few small packages tight to his chest.

“Safety and peace, Malik,” he saluted, half expecting Malik to snap at him. But the bureau leader spared him only a look before heading for the far end of the bureau. He arranged the packages he was carrying next to an old chair, placing them on top of each other close to the wall. Then he walked back to his desk, finally looking at Altaïr. Not just looking, but _observing,_ from head to toe.

“I was honestly considering making you clean the entire patio when I saw your filthy clothes ruining my fountain,” he said, stepping closer until Altaïr’s back hit the desk, “but then I realized you were not wearing them and figured it could probably wait.”

Altaïr smirked, surprised but grateful that Malik’s train of thought did not include extensive interrogation on how his clothes had gotten in such a state. Perhaps he didn’t want to be questioned himself. Malik’s dark eyes flicked briefly to his lips before lunging for them, a firm, drawn-out kiss that made Altaïr curl one arm around his waist and pull their bodies closer. Malik’s clothes were still warm from the sun and he was pressing himself against Altaïr so hard that the assassin had to plant the other hand on the table to avoid being crushed against it. Malik’s tongue was stroking his own lazily, like it would other parts of his body, and he could feel himself firming under his borrowed breeches in response. His arm tightened, his body hungering for more, but Malik pulled back, unhurriedly, eyes inspecting the various items scattered on his desk before returning to his body, quickly settling on his left arm.

He arched a brow and held it towards the light. “Oh. You were trying to emulate my work. I’m honored, but I must say you’re terrible at it.”

“Yes, apparently I can’t excel at everything,” he retorted, his other hand caressing the side of Malik’s neck. Malik seemed contended with just a kiss, but there was no way Altaïr would let him go after a kiss like that. As if reading his mind, Malik released his arm, looked at his crotch and raised his eyes again.

“I have work to do,” he said, although there was no real meaning behind the words.

“I’ll leave in the morning for a mission in Damascus,” Altaïr replied, staring back without wavering, “Plenty of time to work then”.

He could see the wheels turning in Malik’s mind. Malik was always like this, complex thoughts and complex emotions dictating every aspect of his life. It was a process and Altaïr liked to watch it unfold – his hand clenching, then relaxing, his eyes narrowing speculatively, weighing what he should or shouldn’t do.

At last, something changed in his eyes and Altaïr knew he had won, although Malik’s expression betrayed nothing. A little shiver of excitement at the unknown snaked down Altaïr’s spine as Malik came closer for another kiss. Again a deliberate stroke of lips and tongue that made his hands shove Malik’s robe off his shoulders, wanting bare skin to touch. But as he aimed for his shirt, Malik grabbed his left wrist and pinned it on the table. His lips moved alongside his jaw and nibbled lightly at his lobe. “Your hands. On the table.”

Altaïr bit his lip. Conflict arose within him, opposing urges threatening to split him in two. It was like he had two souls, each one trying to overrun the other. One was stern and inflexible, growling for him to grab Malik by the collar, slam him against the wall and fuck him hard, make him moan his name and plead for more. And he wanted to do it, wanted to make Malik forget his own name as buried himself deep inside him, making him gasp for air, watching his fingers scraping the wall in ecstasy... But another voice crept under the tempting image, a soft, milder whisper in the back of his mind that spoke strange things, disconnected words that had no logic but slid across his mind like the warm afternoon breeze.

 _Stay_.

 _Surrender_.

 _Beg_.

He shook his head. He was hard, so painfully hard he refused to acknowledge it had anything to do with those meaningless words. This made no sense, no sense at all. He dropped his head forward, his thoughts too great of a burden for him to sustain.

His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the desk of their own volition and refused to move.

Malik waited a few seconds before lifting his chin and claiming his mouth once again. It was no longer gentle and sensuous; it was a harsh, dominating kiss that had him moaning softly, tongue still trying to fight the battle his hands had already lost, hips seeking the friction that Malik insisted on denying him with a thumb digging into the juncture of hip and belly.

With a soft nibble to his lower lip, Malik stepped back once more. His eyes were dark with desire but Altaïr could tell he was not nearly as desperate as he was himself. He felt a distant twinge of annoyance at that; Malik having more self-control than him was just not acceptable.

He squeezed the edge of the table. He would stay but would not surrender.

Malik reached for something behind his back and he was surprised to find his hand holding the inkpot and the quill he had used earlier.

“Let’s see if you can learn by watching,” Malik said, settling the ink pot and the quill within reach before lowering Altaïr’s breeches to the floor. He stepped out of them almost by reflex, wondering just what Malik had in mind.

Always the perfectionist, Malik stirred the ink a few times with a small wooden stick and only then did he dip the quill in it. Pressing a light kiss to Altaïr’s lips, he whispered, “Don’t move.” The tip of the quill pressed to his skin, right next to his left hip, and Altaïr could not suppress a shudder. That made Malik smirk and add, “If you can.”

“Of course I-- ah,” was Altaïr’s failed attempt at a comeback. The quill had a scratchy feeling that was neither soft nor uncomfortable, it was… different. His blunt fingernails dug harder into the wood as the made a tremendous effort not to squirm. Malik was smiling as he moved the quill across his skin, forming what looked like letters snug against the inside of his hip. The circular, elegant form was marred only by the unevenness of his muscles.

Malik stopped briefly to get more ink on the quill and Altaïr again resisted the impulse to take Malik right there, against the table and on top of his own maps. It was only a fair compensation for this feeding of Malik’s ego at his expense.

“I know how to write,” he provided, in spite of the obvious difference between Malik’s neat lines as his own clumsy ones.

“Hmm,” Malik hummed, eyes darting from his own work to Altaïr’s. That smug smile spread across his face again and Altaïr could not help but think that Malik was having way more fun with all this than he should be having. “Fair enough,” Malik said, focusing on his other hip, “Let’s try something more artistic then.”

Now used to the sandy feeling of the quill moving over his skin, the first few strokes had Altaïr’s thoughts drain from his mind, eyes sliding to half-mast as the long lines lulled his biting desire into a slow burn, like withering charcoal on a long lit fire. His head tilted to the side and he watched Malik’s hand move gracefully, going as low as his thigh and as high as his ribs. It looked like a bird of sorts. The long lines receded to sharp details, mostly located teasingly close to his groin, and Malik’s wrist brushed against his cock. Just once and Altaïr could have ignored it bravely, proud of his endurance. But it became frequent, and not just his wrist but also the soft feather itself, and it wasn’t long before he was moaning quietly, aching for a firmer touch, hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly they were almost numb.

He had surrendered, that much he couldn’t deny. But he would most definitively not beg.

“It’s a shame that the only hand I have is busy right now,” Malik mused aloud, although he was no longer adding anything of value to the strange bird on Altaïr’s hip.

A few minutes earlier and Altaïr would have snorted at that. Not now. He let his four fingered hand wrap itself around his length, trying to not interfere with Malik’s work despite everything, and groaned at the relief, for once getting off not only on the slow pumping motion but also on the way Malik’s hand faltered and then stopped completely. Dark eyes watched him intently, ablaze with passion and arousal, the quill completely forgotten between nimble fingers.

It was those same nimble fingers that gripped his wrist and brought it to a stop.

“Not here,” Malik decided, and yanked him to the bedchamber so suddenly he almost tripped on his discarded breeches.

There was no time for a witty retort or anything else. As soon as they were inside, Malik slammed him against the wall, hand clasping his ass to grind his clothed cock harder against his bare one. Altaïr shut his eyes and threw his head back, whimpering loudly at the pleasurable harsh friction of Malik’s breeches.

“I knew you wanted this,” Malik murmured, voice way more calm than it should have been as he licked the shell of his ear, hips thrusting roughly against his, making him gasp every time. “You were just confused about who did what.”

Altaïr shook his head in negation, heart pounding and hands frantic to get rid of Malik’s clothes, desperate for the feel of bare skin and hard muscle against his. He should say something, tell Malik he was wrong, but suddenly the importance of clarifying that particular issue was nothing more than a remote chirp in the back of his mind. He could barely think anymore, not with Malik’s naked body pressing against him in full, his length finally gloriously bare against his. He wrapped both arms around Malik’s neck and just let himself go, abandoning his senses to Malik’s hand on his thigh, Malik’s heaving chest pressing against his, Malik’s lips on his collarbone moving irresistibly up his neck to his jaw. An overwhelming sense of freedom washed over him and he forgot why it was ever important to resist this.

He let himself be pushed onto the cushions and lay on his back, eyes settling on the ceiling as he took the opportunity to regain his breath.

“Close your eyes,” Malik whispered, grabbing the bottle of oil and advancing to kneel between his legs. Altaïr nodded and complied. He felt Malik press one knee to his chest, effectively bending him in two. Then he grabbed the other leg and did the same, sliding forward enough that both his legs were securely hooked on his shoulders.

Altaïr bit his lip. He couldn’t say he had been as… _exposed_ as this before. He was grateful for having his eyes closed. Perhaps that had been the reason for Malik’s suggestion.

He felt Malik shift and anticipated his next move, was ready for it, but his body was not as pliant as he felt. When Malik inserted a well-oiled finger inside him his muscles still clenched reflexively, rebelling against the intrusion. But Malik was good with his fingers, that much was undeniable by now, and soon Malik was two fingers deep inside him, making him writhe and gasp and tremble, everything else forgotten and small and irrelevant. Muscles quivering with exertion, he breathed a curse.

“Malik,” he growled, eyes meeting Malik’s to stress his point. Any more of this and he would be finished.

“Yes, Altaïr?” Malik prompted, a thin smile of satisfaction spreading on his features as once again his fingers curled inside him, making him trash, dangerously close to the edge.

“Malik, that’s more than enou—nngh!” Stars. He was seeing bright, shinning stars all over, legs convulsing as Malik once more brushed that spot that drove him out of his mind. Almost folded in two as he was, squirming _and_ breathing at the same time was an accomplishment. He grabbed Malik’s hair and pulled him close for a kiss.

Lips locked and tongues entwined, he let the last of his reluctance slip from his mind. Then he pulled away, gasping, and whispered at last, “Please.” It was a strangled sound of need, a plea he had sworn would never leave his lips.

But it had.

And he didn’t even care.

Smiling approvingly, Malik finally took his fingers out to give way to his erection, pushing in slowly and steadily, leaning forward until Altaïr’s knees were aligned with his shoulders and Malik was fully sheathed inside him.

“ _Tight_ ,” Malik hissed through clenched teeth, withdrawing tentatively before sliding in again.

“Don’t stop,” Altaïr heard himself breathe out in a rush of air, hands sliding into Malik’s dark, short hair. He felt dazed, the position forced quick, shallow breaths out of him, his oxygen deprived brain reeling every time Malik slid in, going deeper than ever before.

He moaned with abandon, cheeks heating as Malik quickened his pace in response. Malik had his fingers spread on his light hair as well, his full weight supported solely by Altaïr’s bent legs as he stole another kiss. Altaïr wanted to make it last but there was just no way. He couldn’t even reach his own cock, trapped as it was between their bodies, and Malik didn’t seem very interested in changing that. He looked satisfied beyond physical pleasure, he looked… victorious. But not just victorious, also immensely aroused, certainly close to his own limits, if the little wanton sounds and erratic thrusts were anything to go by. He tried to snake one hand between their bodies to reach his cock but Malik just leaned forward even more, smirking gleefully as he angled his hips to hit that hidden spot with each thrust, making Altaïr gasp, astounded at how much the position enhanced the overwhelming sensation. And then he was coming, fingers digging in Malik’s shoulders at the intensity of it, lungs aching as they fought to keep breathing under the weight of the most exquisite, blinding pleasure he had ever felt. It only took one last thrust for Malik to follow him into blissful oblivion, hand planted on the floor to relieve him of some of the weight as he moaned his release.

He found himself blinking at the ceiling, a strange feeling of quietude settling where whirling thought would usually be. It took him a moment to realize Malik had pushed himself up and was watching him with a soft smile, something akin to tenderness in his eyes.

“You need to lower your legs slowly, one at a time. I’ll massage them to get the blood flowing again,” Malik said in a low voice, sitting back to give him space to do as he had suggested. Altaïr complied grudgingly, moving was the last thing he wanted to do. But it had to be done, so he lowered one leg slowly, cringing as circulation resumed and a thousand spikes pierced his muscles.

“Fuck, it hurts,” he complained, already massaging the other leg himself.

“What are you, an apprentice again? You’ve suffered worse,” Malik chided, fingers kneading his thigh with strong movements.

Legs revived, exhaustion slammed into him like a punch to the gut and he lay back on the cushions heavily, closing his eyes as Malik snuggled against his side. His fingers were drawn to the ink on his skin and Altaïr let him trace the neat lines, his breath evening out as he pondered giving in to a short nap.

“Do you want me to pretend to believe that you’re asleep?” Malik murmured against his collarbone, planting a light kiss there.

“Will it save me from cleaning the fountain?” Altaïr asked in return, petting Malik’s hair absently.

“It won’t clean itself,” Malik scoffed.

“But haven’t I atoned for that already?” Altaïr bemoaned, pretending to pout.

“You call this atonement?! You’re gravely mistaken. This was as an early reward for your future exceptional work cleaning up your own mess.”

Altaïr smiled and shifted his hand to rub small circles on Malik’s back. Malik felt good like this, half draped across his chest. Being with Malik was always an adventure full of the unexpected – the man was as complex and intense as a human being could be – but this he had never imagined. How could Malik be so confident about what he wanted when he’d never even hypothesized it himself? Malik had taken him plenty of times, but never like this. He felt slightly embarrassed just remembering how much he’d enjoyed being stripped of all control, and damn it, he’d even come without being touched. And how could that bring him such a contradicting sense of freedom? Of… transcendent peace?

Perhaps he should say something about it, but he just couldn’t find the right words. Or rather, words that wouldn’t decimate his ego to ashes. Instead, he just said, “You call this reward? I can barely move.”

Malik snorted and got up, extracting his breeches from the heap of clothes on the floor. Then again, that cocky smile. “ _That_ ’s how _good_ your reward was.”

Altaïr smiled and closed his eyes again. Rolling around on the _souq_ ’s muddy floor had just become surprisingly appealing.


End file.
